China Blue Silk
by ArchFaith
Summary: Based off the book, Iron and Silk, this is a little vignette about visiting with an American English teacher in a small college in Changsha, China, where life is completely different.


Disclaimer: All Iron and Silk elements belong to Mark Salzburg. 

Notes: Here's another one of my little school essays. An interesting look at what life in China with an American teacher would have been like.

**Update: 2/21/05** This is barely a fic, really. Well, I'm just fixing it up to correct spacing and all that...

China Blue Silk  
by ArchFaith (formerly known as the ArchPrincess of Saturn)

"Welcome!" Mark greeted enthusiastically, taking my bag as I stepped off the train at Changsha Station.

"Hello Mark!" I replied, smiling broadly at my former college classmate. Mark and I had studied Chinese together at Yale University, and now  
Markhad invited me to visit him in Changsha, a city in the Hunan Province of China, to get a real feel for culture. I accepted right away.

Of course he talked about it, but I managed to witness a few of these episodes. And they were never without meaning or morals. I was there to see Mark's first meeting with the man called Pan, a famous martial artist. He had choreographed and directed the martial arts sequences in a movie called Shaolin Temple, and had a huge reputation as a fighter. His right hand, disfigured, was known as the "Iron Fist". He was known to pound an iron plate with his bare hand thousands of times a day.

Mark and Pan talked while we watched the athletes at the Provincial Sports Unit practice furiously. After two hours, when their morning exercise was completed, Mark was requested to do a routine. "On the Street Boxing" he called it, and although the athletes seemed to enjoy it, Pan did not.

Right there and then, Mark became Pan's student.

Another episode was when an old fisherman spotted us sitting on the side of the river one afternoon. Surprised to see foreigners who spokeMandarin, he invited us into his boat. He rowed out to a number of boats tied together, and introduced to his family. They were as amazed as hewas, and welcomed us. That day, we learned the basics of fishing in China, such as rowing the small boats, casting "flower nets" and setting up nets that are pulled together by several boats. Later we visited aboard a large boat anchored in the middle of the river, where the captain greeted us warmly and told us about his experiences with American soliders in World War II.

But after that, we had to leave. Mark would have been late for his class. The friendly fisherman, Old Ding, gave us two big fish to take home. The whole day was very interesting, to say the least. Never had I thought that anyone would be so friendly as to welcome total strangers, foreigners, into their home (or fishing boat). The fishing people are honest and kind, a lesson conveyed to me by Mark's colleague, Teacher Wei, when she brought one of the fish, traditionally cooked in a Hunan sauce, up to us later that night.

But the list goes on. One afternoon I decided to sit in on one of Mark's classes. At that point, he was reading out loud, "The Lottery" by Shirley Jackson. It was a story about a town that held a lottery each year, the "winner" stoned to death. I was almost dozing off when one of the students raised her hand. She questioned whether the story was real or not. This set off a whole argument with the class, as to why people could so such a thing. One of the other students recalled a memory, a memory about the Cultural Revolution, trying to show love for Chairman Mao, thosands of people jumping into the Xiang River, drowning because there was not enough room to swim. "The river looked like soup, and the people's heads looked like dumplings," he explained. I immediately woke up from my half-sleep. Why did those people do that? They didn't have to! So many lives could've been saved! Why would you show "love" for Mao?

But I had missed one thing the student had said: they had to.

The last memorable event occured two days before I was to leave. Mark and I were traveling on a crowded train when we encountered two young men. One, drinking baiju, (a kind of Chinese rice liqour) began talking about his and his companion's time in jail for stabbing a person. This made Mark and I a little uncomfortable, but the talk soon shifted to the young man's mother, how she'd be waiting for him at the station, how she lovedhim, how...but the man's companion quickly quieted him. "Because he's from far away," he explained, pointing to Mark. "He can't see his mom at all. He doesn't need to know how happy you are."

This suddenly reminded of my home in the U.S., and how much I had missed it. I decided that it was time for me to return.

"Thanks so much!" I called to Mark, waving good-bye to me at the train station. "Come visit me sometime! And write me...about how your wushu lessons go."


End file.
